Morag pointed to the casket. ‘Intriguing box!’
‘I brought cloth from Edinburgh.’ Elizabeth pulled out a roll of Indian cotton with elaborate decorations in light crimson, and a smaller roll of silk. ‘What do you think?’
‘Exquisite!’ Morag’s eyes sparkled as she fingered the material. ‘We have a dressmaker in the village if ye want help making them up.’
‘I was thinking we could make gowns for you and your sisters-in-law, if they liked the shade.’
Morag clapped her hands. ‘Dear Mrs Bailey, they will love it!’ She looked eagerly inside the casket. ‘Any more?’
Elizabeth closed the box with a smile. ‘We can leave the other items until later.’
‘Then I’ll away and leave ye in peace.’
Elizabeth watched as Morag checked her hair in the mirror and swept to the door. ‘Oh, Mrs, ah, Mackay …’
‘Morag!’ She turned. ‘Ye’ll be living here a wee while, and there are too many Mrs Mackays for convenience.’
‘Call me Elizabeth then. Perhaps this is a foolish question, Morag, but is there any reason why my presence in Strathmaran should be, ah, distressing for anyone?’
‘Ye’ve been speaking wi’ Flora?’
‘Briefly.’
Morag waved her hand. ‘Dinna mind her. She grew up in different times.’
Elizabeth decided not to press the matter.
At supper, the Mackays behaved for the most part as if Elizabeth were not there. She was introduced to Morag’s mild-mannered husband, Captain Robert, on leave from his regiment. The captain’s sister Henrietta was a plump, prettyish woman in her early twenties, with a reassuringly gentle manner and a faraway look in her eyes; her fiancé Lieutenant Shawcross would soon depart for the Caribbean. A striking dark-haired girl flounced in and glared at Thomas, who introduced her as Flora’s youngest daughter Isobel. Two servants served crab cakes followed by salmon with potatoes and barley bread, while the conversation focussed on unfathomable goings-on at Larraig, or Callach, or Thomas’s estate Laramore.
Fruit pies arrived, and Flora Mackay’s eye came to rest on Elizabeth.
‘Are ye comfortable with yer rooms, Mrs Bailey?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Yer journey was pleasant?’ Henrietta asked.
‘We travelled much of the way with Sir John Sinclair,’ Elizabeth said.
Isobel regarded her with sudden interest. ‘What did ye make of him?’
‘A fount of knowledge on how estates should be managed.’
‘Ye think so?’ Isobel sniffed.
Elizabeth detected a sudden tension at the table, and glanced at Thomas, wishing he would step in. She smiled, trying to make light of it. ‘Is there a feud between your families that I should be aware of?’
A polite chuckle from Lieutenant Shawcross, but the others received the remark in awkward silence.
Eventually Flora Mackay said, ‘Sinclairs and Mackays may have quarrelled in th’bygane, Mrs Bailey, but we’re peaceful and law-abiding folk at the noo. Ye’ll find that we’re nae such savages as ye might imagine.’
Elizabeth swallowed. ‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Elizabeth has brought fine material from Edinburgh,’ Morag said quickly. ‘Indian cotton, and silk too.’
Elizabeth coloured. ‘I thought you might like to make up gowns in the latest styles.’ She looked at Henrietta, then Isobel. ‘I also have smaller gifts.’ She reached for a package and pulled out four Paisley shawls, woven from cashmere in arabesque patterns. There were gasps of interest from Morag and Henrietta, who cooed with delight as they tried on the shawls and felt their softness. After passing one to Flora, who accepted it with a grunt, Elizabeth smiled at Isobel.
‘Try this.’
For a moment the girl froze, as if resisting an impulse to touch the lovely material; then she jumped up.
‘I already have a fine shawl, thank ye. Ye may keep it fer yerself.’
She walked out with a toss of the head, while Captain Mackay turned to Thomas with a shrug.
‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!’ he said. ‘Beware Greeks bearing gifts!’
Elizabeth sighed, perplexed what she had done to earn such prickly reactions.
3
July 1813, Meryton
On an overcast morning Mary Bennet hastened along the High Street. At her side trotted Ellen, their maid-of-all-work, a stoical roly-poly girl who was having difficulty keeping up. They had brought Michaelmas daisies for Mr Bennet’s grave at Longbourn church, a mile from the town. Mrs Bennet no longer attended this church for fear of meeting the Collinses, but Mary felt it her duty to put fresh flowers at least once a week.
‘Twill rain, I’m thinking,’ Ellen wheezed.
Mary swerved to avoid a spray of mud from a passing cart. ‘It’ll hold off.’
‘We’ve no brolly.’
‘What use would that be? Another thing to carry.’
‘Perhaps Miss Kitty will bring one.’
Mary sighed: Ellen was a hard worker, but perpetually anxious. In truth she felt uneasy herself, over what Kitty might get up to in the milliner’s. She had promised not to raid the money box, but the shopkeeper might let her run up an account.
After the High Street the bustle abated. A few carters passed, but no carriages. Once, this had been their route home; now they lived the other end of Meryton in Woodside Cottage. It was just large enough, having three upstairs bedrooms and a spare room for Ellen. The rent, mercifully, was paid up to October: Lizzy’s husband Mr Bailey had seen to that. But for daily expenses they had only the income from Mrs Bennet’s marriage settlement, amounting to £200 a year—just enough to employ a servant if they budgeted 10 shillings a day for food and clothing. No housekeeper, of course. Mary had taken on this role herself.
Ellen apart, Mary received little help. Mrs Bennet rarely left home, afraid of meeting Lady Lucas, or worse, the Collinses. She had shown scant grief at the passing of Mr Bennet, only despondency at the consequences of his death. Over and over again she bemoaned his folly in going to London. Had he listened to her advice, and left Mr Gardiner to manage the search, none of this would have happened. Oddly she never blamed Lydia or Wickham—in Mary’s opinion, the true culprits.
The only person willing to attend these effusions was Kitty, who responded with an obsession of her own: that their changed circumstances were unfair, since they were not her fault. At which point she would throw an accusing glance at Lydia. Kitty’s interest now centred on her wardrobe: they still had dresses purchased earlier, which could be adapted at low cost by adding ribbons or other bits and bobs. But the officers had gone and there were no suitors or invitations; all Kitty could hope for was to present a respectable figure in the High Street. Lydia was no longer interested in anything, even her appearance: once effervescent, she now passed most of the day reading romantic novels. Of her elopement she had confided nothing.
Where Kitty and Lydia concurred was in envy of their elder sisters, especially Lizzy. Letters arrived every week speaking of feasts, dancing, walks over the moors, cliffs overlooking wild seas. As a laird’s wife Lizzy would have large rooms, maids, footmen, carriages, money for new gowns—all the pleasures they had once taken for granted. Even Jane, now living with the Gardiners, could enjoy the excitement of the capital, among people unaware of their disgrace. Mrs Bennet still hoped Jane’s beauty might attract a rich suitor—an unlikely dream. The Gardiners sent small sums, appreciated by Mary, but visits were hard to arrange without suitable accommodation.
No, they had to manage alone, and that was what she would do.
The flowers had been changed, the graveside tidied. To Mary’s regret they had not chanced upon the rector, who always greeted her pleasantly as a former devotee. Back in the village she visited the bookshop, which ran a small circulating library, and picked a novel for Lydia and a treatise on Renaissance Art for herself. Ellen, meanwhile, visited the butcher’s and grocer’s with their modest list.
Outside th
e milliner’s they saw Kitty, who ran to meet her.
‘Mary, you must see, they have a new bonnet in satin and taffeta which would look so fine with some adjustments, and I have had no new clothes since last year.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve ordered it.’
‘No, but my old one is so shabby …’
Mary studied the bonnet Kitty had on. ‘This will last another year.’
‘Come and look.’
‘We need to get back.’
‘Please!’ Kitty dragged her into the shop, Ellen waiting outside with the basket. A stand on the counter held Kitty’s treasure, stylish in gold and cream—but with a price tag of 13s 4d that would consume their food budget for two days.
‘They say it’s the latest fashion, and durable,’ Kitty said. ‘It should last two years, so really we’d be saving money.’
Mary led her aside, whispering. ‘We could wait and see if the price comes down.’
The door tinkled to admit a stylish lady whom Mary recognised as her namesake Miss King, who had been pursued by Wickham after she inherited £10,000. Ignoring them, Miss King walked imperiously to the shopkeeper, who handed her the gold-and-cream bonnet to try on.
Mary took Kitty’s arm. ‘Let’s go home.’
They walked back to their new residence, slowly now, with Kitty’s brief moment of optimism extinguished.
‘This is Lydia’s doing,’ Kitty muttered, as Ellen pulled ahead.
‘Remember Luke six,’ Mary said. ‘Blessed be ye poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God. If our misfortune helps us be better people, should we not rejoice?’
‘We could have paid on account,’ Kitty said.
Mary fell silent, thinking of her book on art. She was realising how poorly they had been educated. Music she had learned, but she needed to broaden out. Art, History, Literature. So equipped, she might find employment as a governess if she managed to obtain references. Not near Meryton, of course; she would travel. The rector might write a letter of recommendation without mentioning too much of her history …
She urged Kitty to speed up. It was mid-morning already and she had much to do.
4
August 1813, Laramore
It was a luminous summer day. Tall coppery grass colonised the river bank, pushing through reeds flattened by spring floods. Beyond, the moor blazed with purple-pink heather. The Maran was so shallow that she could have crossed in two strides, wetting only her ankles. A warm breeze caressed her skin; Elizabeth felt her new home at last welcoming her.
Henrietta called to the groom who had driven them from Strathmaran.
‘Have ye business in Laramore, Munro?’
‘Ainlie tae await ye, ma’am.’
‘I’ve a mind tae see the moor this last time.’
Elizabeth touched her arm. ‘Why not continue up the hill, Etta? I have to visit the Kirdys, then Mr Gibson, the schoolmaster, so you can take ninety minutes and regain Strathmaran on time.’ She grinned. ‘You’ll wear silk for the ball?’
‘Aye, and feel the sharp end of Issy’s tongue.’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘She’ll be keeping that for me. Shall I sport my most English dress, just to annoy her?’
Henrietta laughed. ‘Fine pair ye are, like cat and dog. Morag will take your side, though.’
Elizabeth nodded: Morag and Isobel were ever at each other’s throats. After a moment she asked, ‘Truly, how do you feel about leaving?’
‘Tis an adventure, and Lieutenant Shawcross is a man with ambition.’
Elizabeth fell silent, reflecting on the destiny that had brought her to the north coast of Scotland. Now Henrietta was embarking on a far longer voyage to the island of St Vincent—hence the céilidh planned for that evening. Guests would arrive from Rith, Larraig, even Thurso Castle: Mackays and Sinclairs mostly, the local clans. On past form the festivities might extend into two more days of dancing and drinking, while Henrietta crossed to Glasgow to board the ship that would sail her off to marriage and a new life.
At the Kirdys, Elizabeth found the factor still abed with congestion of the lungs. An apothecary had passed with instructions to induce vomiting; this caused such discomfort that Mrs Kirdy had switched to a traditional remedy of water purified by three pebbles drawn from the river at midnight. The stone house was the largest in the village; as factor, Kirdy managed the estate, leaving Elizabeth’s husband Thomas Bailey free to spend most of his time in Edinburgh.
‘M’leddie.’ Kirdy raised his shoulders, wheezing with effort.
‘Pray relax, Mr Kirdy.’ Elizabeth occupied a wooden chair beside the bed. ‘I’ve brought honey and lemon from Strathmaran, and a flask of whisky. They can be combined into a hot drink that will ease your cough.’
‘Verra kind. Thank ye. The laird’s away th’day tae clear up the matter of the sheep?’
Elizabeth nodded, aware of the problem—an influx of sheep from Callach through a breach in the wall.
‘He’ll be back for the céilidh.’
Kirdy managed a chuckle. ‘Aye, he’ll nae be missing that.’
Elizabeth sighed. She wanted to appear optimistic, but Kirdy’s illness was not only worrying in itself, but a distressing reminder of Mr Bennet’s suffering the year before. At least her father’s illness had been brief, and he was now at peace. She turned away, fighting tears.
Downstairs, Kirdy’s daughters Annag and Mairi had been joined by Donald Gibson, the new teacher. Excited at seeing Elizabeth, the girls regaled her with gossip about their brothers: Lachlan, stalking on the moors, hoping to serve in the Highlanders; Iain only interested in farming.
‘Och, and Iain beds in a cottage near the sheep,’ Mairi cried, ‘and near Great-Aunt Sibyl who has the sight and has asked particular tae see ye.’
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘Is it far?’
‘Up next to the run-rigs,’ Mr Gibson said. ‘We can talk on the way.’
Leaving the clutch of stone houses beside the kirk, Elizabeth recalled her shock on first viewing the village. It was like visiting a foreign country. The cottages were of clay and thick turf, with roofs of broom and straw reaching almost to the ground. Most women wore dark blue woollen gowns and plaid shawls, and went bare-footed. Men sat outside on benches, talking; few seemed disposed to join in the work. The language was Gaelic, of which she could scarcely make out a word. But as she passed, children interrupted their play, and adults bowed and called out Feasgar math, Bhean Elisaid—two expressions that she had learned. Good afternoon. Lady Elizabeth.
Here she felt accepted, not just with deference but respect and warmth—commodities rare at Strathmaran.
Mr Gibson, a dedicated man in his mid-twenties, had been sent by the Glasgow Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge; he lived, with his wife, near the Kirdys. Part of his brief was to teach the children English, but he believed that the first step was to get them reading anything—to which end, he wanted to tempt them through stories in their own language. Elizabeth had ordered copies of Celtic Fairy Tales which she hoped would serve, although written in the Irish dialect.
They reached the edge of the village, where housing gave way to fields dug in raised strips called run-rigs. She watched as women kneeled by their strips, weeding and picking.
Sibyl Kirdy’s cottage was separated from the run-rigs and grazing land by a stand of birch. Elizabeth had never visited, but knew the old woman by reputation. She shared with Kirdy’s widowed sister, who looked after her with help from his son Iain. Nobody knew how old she was; she had either forgotten or refused to say. Sibyl was blind, but gifted, it was said, with second sight. Every day she sat in a dark corner, listening intently, smoking a clay pipe, eating little. People passed to ask her advice, bringing eggs, cabbage, or oatcakes in payment.
Gibson peered inside. ‘She’s alone,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll stay to translate.’
The interior was lit only by a shaft of sunlight from a small deep window. The floor was bare earth, except in an annex for livestock, where ston
es had been laid to prevent hooves from churning the mud. Along one wall was a box bed, like a cupboard with a mattress inside. In the far corner a woman reclined in a rocking chair, eyes shut, humming softly. At her side stood a wicker chair which creaked as Elizabeth sat down.
‘Hallo, Mrs Kirdy.’
Sibyl turned towards the noise, eyes opening momentarily as if staring through Elizabeth into the distance. She wore a black gown, rough and reeking of tobacco, a shawl around her thin shoulders, and a white cap.
She muttered a few words.
‘Move closer,’ Gibson translated.
As Elizabeth complied, gnarled fingers moved up her arm to the tresses spilling from her light bonnet, and the woman muttered again, as if talking to herself.
‘Such beautiful brown curls,’ Gibson said.
Elizabeth looked round. ‘Curls can be detected with the fingers,’ she said to Gibson, ‘but brown?’
‘Hearsay,’ he whispered.
She turned back. ‘Mrs Kirdy, is there anything I can do for you?’
Sibyl extended an arm and spoke.
‘Your left hand,’ Gibson said.
Elizabeth smiled as her hand was slowly explored.
‘Long life?’ she suggested hopefully.
The woman stiffened, gripped Elizabeth’s arm tightly, and discharged a torrent of words.
‘Take care!’ Gibson said. ‘You will enjoy good health, but lose someone important to you. She sees danger, very close.’
Elizabeth blinked, thinking of her father. Perhaps his death had been mentioned in the village? But this would be a past loss, not an imminent one. Could this refer to Henrietta, her best friend among the Mackays, about to undertake a hazardous voyage to the Caribbean?
She shook herself: it was superstition, after all.
‘Thank her,’ she said lightly. ‘I will keep my wits about me.’
Darcy's Highland Fling Page 2